


The Pizza of My Eye

by megyal



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Domestic, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-13
Updated: 2010-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-13 04:57:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long time apart, John connects with Matt again; while Matt is basically the same, there is one fundamental change about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pizza of My Eye

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [kink_bigbang](http://www.livejournal.com/users/kink_bigbang/). There was a whole lot more story to this, as anyone who read my notes can tell you. But I'd like to thank all those who read-through this for me: [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/winnett/profile)[**winnett**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/winnett/), [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/persnickett/profile)[**persnickett**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/persnickett/), [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/schuyler/profile)[**schuyler**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/schuyler/), [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sly_fuck/profile)[**sly_fuck**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sly_fuck/) and [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/okubyo_kitsune/profile)[**okubyo_kitsune**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/okubyo_kitsune/). You're all awesome, and thanks to those who I complained to at every turn. Artwork was done by the amazing[](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sly_fuck/profile)[ **sly_fuck**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/sly_fuck/).

_She's what's keeping me alive  
She's the pizza of my eye  
Without her near me I would not survive  
-'Antonia', Motion City Soundtrack _

  
**1.**

John spots Matt Farrell on the street outside Starbucks, sipping from this cup of coffee huge enough to hold a small country. He's tugging the collar of a dark jacket against the brisk October wind. It's so random and kind of weird, because John had _just_ been thinking about him two days ago, when this family he'd had a case for gave him their missing kid's Myspace site-thing, to see if anything might be on it to give John a lead or two; he'd taken one look at the confusing tumble of words and pictures and thought _if that fucking hacker kid was here he might figure this shit out_ and speak of the fucking devil, here he is.

"Farrell!" he yells, and the kid snaps his head to the side, looking down the busy sidewalk. He's across the road from John, gazing all over the place for whoever called his name, except in John's direction. "Over here, dickhead!"

The look that comes over Farrell's face is incredulous that some asshole would be calling him _dickhead_ right out in public at one-thirty in the afternoon, and when he finally spots John, the expression melts into a combination of being wryly unsurprised at John's hail, and a species of pleasant wonder. He points a finger at John and then turns it quickly back to himself a couple of times, hand-signals for _should I go over there or are you coming?_ John flaps a hand at him and walks back towards the stop-light he had passed by a few moments ago, waiting for a _walk_ signal to cross the busy main street. When he strides quickly across the road, Farrell is already at the other side of the intersection, grinning so hard that his cheeks are puffy like a chipmunk's.

"Holy shit, McClane, you're still _alive_?" is the first thing Farrell says to him after about four years of them not seeing each other after all the Fire Sale inquiries. Seriously, what a little punk.

John says, "You sound like I've ruined all your fucking plans, kid," and Farrell laughs, a throaty chuckle that has him tilting his head back and closing his eyes. He sticks out a hand when he's done laughing and John takes it, giving it a couple of quick pumps before letting go; his hand is dry and warm from the heat of his cup. "Sorry about the continued existence, and all."

"Come on, man." Farrell grins up at him, and he looks more or less exactly the same: the smooth fall of dark hair and the reluctant fuzz scattered across his cheeks and jaw. There's a more wary look to his eyes in comparison to the first time John met him, when he came off as no more than a cocky little dipshit; not necessarily towards _John_ , just an overall weighted expression that John finds strangely familiar; he thinks he might have seen it in the mirror once or twice or a thousand times. But he looks good, that's a relief.

"Come on," Farrell repeats and gives his massive bucket of a cup a little shake. "Hey, just. You busy right now? I mean, I don't have to pick up Mel for another hour or so, so... let me buy you a cup of coffee. We'll make like a sewing circle and gossip."

"I'm not gonna drink some shitty latte _now_ ," John tells him in mock offense and Matt's eyes dance at him. It's surprisingly easy falling into this teasing rhythm. Most people who had ever rolled with him during some 'emergency situation' tend to give him a wide berth. Except for maybe Al, who still gives him a call now and then, to make sure he hasn't gone over what Al refers to as his kill-ratio. "What the fuck do I look like? I'd rather drink piss than get that stuff in my system."

"Jesus, John, I want to spend like five minutes catching up. You don't have to _drink_ anything. Pretend, man, that is all I'm asking right now." Matt reaches out and tugs at the sleeve of his jacket impatiently while John is realizing that he likes the sound of his first name coming out like that. Farrell says _John_ like it's just a normal name, it doesn't slide out of his mouth curled up in disdain or edgy irritation or intimidated awe; simply _John_. "Dude, just. Walk with me, I'm here pulling you and it's like I'm trying to pull a fucking mountain."

"I thought you were going to work out and get all muscular in case the end of the world loomed again," John says, quoting him from that time he had been exasperated with being dragged from one inquisition to the other.

(Farrell had complained constantly.

"I mean, they don't drag _you_ ," he said sulkily to John. "You know why? You don't _look_ like you'd be easy to haul back and forth, you know? They look at me and they say, _oh, this kid, we can move him like a coffee-table or something,_ and before you know it, I'm in front of some Fed looking like I just had my finger up my ass.")

Now, Matt flashes him another wide grin.

"You know what they say about life happening when you're making other plans," he quips and drags John back towards the busy Starbucks. Contrary to what he says, he's fairly strong, fingers warm on John's forearm; he tells John to find somewhere to sit while he gets a coffee. John inches past the young crowd and manages to find a free table, small, round and located near the large glass window. He perches uncomfortably on the chair; it looks frailer than someone's _grandma_ , just thin metal and wood cobbled together.

"Great, you found a seat. Here," Matt says and puts a relatively small cup in front of him; it's still larger than any cup of coffee John would willingly drink at one go. "You'll probably like this, it's pretty strong and bitter. Like you, if you want to get psychological about it."

"I have a therapist already, don't need any more head-shrinking." John pops open the cover and notes that there are no fancy bubbles, just the dark strong liquid and that delicious roasted smell. He takes a sip. "Hmm, not bad."

Matt rolls his eyes, but he still has that grin on his face, the wide sunny one that actually sets John to grinning in response, just like back after the Fire Sale. At the time, he had thought Matt's bright beam to be just a result of the overwhelming relief one gets when they realize that they're still alive, but Matt had constantly thrown that grin his way, when they were in interviews, locked up with the federal agents, waiting on their medication, and John had wondered why he felt so warm whenever he saw it. It had gotten to a point where John would give him lewd jokes before they had to go somewhere important and sit back smugly as the kid snickered like an idiot right through the Serious Business. It was akin to having him on morphine all the time; it was kind of fun.

Honestly, the _whole_ experience had been the nicest Post-Fiasco investigation that John had ever endured. He'd been pretty sharp and cranky whenever he or Matt had to go get treatment for their wounds and he'd be alone to face the music; and when Matt had returned to his parents' home back in Jersey, they'd touch base once in awhile. Matt would swear that he tried to send John some text-messages and John would tell him that the fucking phone _must_ have ate it, because he had seen no such thing.

The few calls had gotten fewer. John tried to think nothing of it, because that was what always happened, but it had stung a little, this time anyway. There _had_ been one strange phone-call where the kid had buzzed him at fuck o'clock in the morning, sounding unhappy and lost. John had been quite prepared to haul ass out of bed, but Farrell had said it was okay, he was fine; _go back to bed, John, I... I think I'm okay now_.

It had taken quite a bit of convincing from Matt, but in the end, John had indeed gone back to bed, feeling confused himself.

"Don't have to be a superman all the fucking time, John-boy. Kid calls in a panic and you're ready to roll," he had muttered to himself and then slipped into a fitful sleep.

Now, however, Matt's grin is simply _fixed_ at that high wattage and lighting John up along with it.

"So," Matt says with fake solemnity and steeples his fingers together, tapping them against his nose as John savours more of the coffee. "So, Detective McClane... aren't you in the wrong precinct, or something?"

"I would be," John agrees lightly, "if I wasn't retired." He chuckles at the way Matt's dark eyebrows fly up.

"Get out... you're _retired_?" He looks as if he wants to let out peals of laughter, but he simply purses his lips and gives John a speculative look. "Ok, here's the deal. Don't go around telling people you're a retired cop, because you don't _look_ it. Man, you look less retired than _me_. Jeez, John, wear out a little, you know?"

John shrugs, rolling his shoulders at the laid-back compliment. "Hey, figured I'd get out while I was still alive. Got a good enough pension, too. Livable, you know?"

"Great, I'm pretty glad Gabriel didn't fuck it up too much," Matt says, and there's something knowing and hard in his smile. John wants to ask him if maybe he had done something to pad his pension a little, but he doesn't. Maybe that would lead to Matt denying it and John knowing that he wasn't telling the truth and then Matt would get offended that John wouldn't just accept it and a whole bag of blah-blah-blah shit he didn't need spoiling this unpredictably simple conversation over coffee. _You don't much easy in life_ , he mentally concluded, _so you better take it when you get it_.

"But... okay, so what do you do now?" Matt is asking, moving his hands so he can rest his arms on the table and lean forward a bit, interested. "Because I _know_ you don't stay at home, catching up on General Hospital and planting a bunch of daisies in the front yard."

"Is _that_ what retired people do?" John asks, mock-amazed, and throws him a lopsided smile. "I don't even have a front yard, anyway. I work for Solomon's. Just down the street, it's this little P.I. firm. Real discreet and shit."

"I knew you wouldn't be able to keep your ass quiet." Matt stares at him for a long moment, eyes brown and warm. John is kind of tickled by the fact that Matt would make such a correct deduction about him and how he likes to spend his time, even if it is one of the more obvious ones. " _P.I_. That's a private investigator, right?"

"Somebody, give this kid the trip to Hawai'i," John drawls and Matt chuckles, turning his face away and grinning at his own shoulder. "Yeah, I get into people's business and dig up stuff they don't want found. Gets me out of the way of those kind of guys who like to blow shit up, get it? Not as exciting, that's for sure," he says slowly, considering his words, "but I still help out. You know?"

"Hey, no, John, I totally get it." Matt's expression has this softness to it as he's regarding John. "You've been a fucking do-gooder all your life, it's a wonder you don't have like an archenemy for your very own by now."

"I'm special, I guess." John is surprised to find that he has actually finished the coffee, and puts down the cup to the side. He places his own arms on the table, mimicking Matt's posture. "Your turn. 'Fess up, Farrell, what have you been up to?"

"When you ask me like that, it brings back so many creepy memories. I feel like I should come clean with that drunken, drug-filled orgy I went to last night."

John frowns at him, irrationally concerned. "Did you?"

Matt laughs right in his face. " _No_ , John. No. Man, I wouldn't know a drunken orgy if it came and sat in my lap. I, uh, I just got a new contract with Dyncorp International, they set up an office here in Manhattan. Small one, because they have the main offices down in Texas, but here is where the party's at for me. And... I'm staying a while with a relative until I get my own place. I'm in Brooklyn. Yeah," he finishes lamely at John's incredulous expression. "No, seriously, I was going to call you! I mean, with all the moving and Mel and all that stuff, I just. I'm sorry, I'll totally make it up to you."

"I can't believe you moved to Brooklyn and didn't even come by to say, 'McClane, what's shaking'," John says gruffly, as if Matt hadn't just gone through that long explanation. "And you could have stayed by me, you've done it before.... like after the Fire Sale, remember? I didn't know you _had_ family up this side."

"Yeah, well." Matt shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. "That's just how it is, sometimes."

John stares at him as Matt gazes out the large window and then he thinks about this _Mel_ character Matt keeps mentioning. His girlfriend, John guesses, so more than likely he wouldn't want some old fart like John cramping his style.

"Yeah, I know," John finally says and Matt turns back his head a little so that their eyes meet again. "That's just how it goes."

Matt gives him a flash of a smile, just as bright as the ones before. He glances down at his wrist and makes a surprised sound.

"Shit, it's getting late," he pronounces, and starts to get up. John rises with him. "Look, um. I'll be up this side a lot during the days, so maybe we can... you know, hang out now and again? For lunch, maybe?"

John, who usually just grabs a sub and a bottle of water from the little place across the street from Solomon's, finds himself agreeing readily. "Sure, kid, why not."

"That's cool," Matt says and walks with him to the swinging glass door, shivering at the way the cool wind seems to tickle his pale skin. Once they're outside, he turns and gives John a chummy double-tap on the shoulder. "Hey, it was really great seeing you, John. I'll call you later, okay?" He backs off a few steps and then turns to stroll away looking over his shoulder to smile at John. The second time he does it, John jerks his chin amicably and heads off in the other direction, back towards Solomon's.

*

"John," Patreece says, her voice nasal through the receiver. He can hear her smacking that god-awful gum even as she speaks, "John, I got your daughter on... what line is this. Line one."

"Pat," he says, taking off his glasses and peering over the short, tan office divider; her desk is probably a foot away from his. "Pat, you can pass me the goddamned phone over this fucking wall."

"Ain't no fun that way." Patreece's grin is of the shit-eating variety and John gives her a long, withering stare. Patreece is one tough cookie; she's this sturdy lady with curls of plastic-looking hair piled on the top of her head and long red fingernails that has John badgering her on how she really wipes her ass when she's done with the bathroom. Pat, who grew up right in the middle of six brothers and is married to an ambulance driver, is completely unfazed by any kind of crudeness John tries to throw her way. She's also pretty keen-eyed and John is glad he has her working with him in this office, but sometimes Pat's teasing ways get on his nerves.

"You want this call or not, John?"

" _Transfer_ it, Pat," John says, trying not to exclaim in exasperation like she's probably hoping he'll do. His desk-phone bleats like a wounded goat and he picks up as Pat snickers at her desk. "Hey, pumpkin."

"It's kind of awesome calling your place of employment and _actually_ getting to talk to you." Lucy's voice is dry as it comes through the receiver. He makes sure to put down the file in his hands and close his eyes, focusing all his attention on her; no distractions now. "I mean, it's like magic."

"As if you used to call me every hour at the precinct, kiddo," John retorts, but he's smiling through the words and he knows she hears it.

He and his children have gotten into a pretty solid rhythm nowadays, with regular calls and visits. John is sure that the way he feels about this is broadcast in his face for the astronauts to see, even though he realizes that part of the reason is because he's retired; the wall of stress that had constantly surrounded him is diminished, if not gone. Lucy calls him more than Jack does, but that's because Jack is just not a phone person; he doesn't even call Holly much, Lucy had told John one day, even though his college is just a few blocks away from her work-place. It's just how Jack is.

When he had received that tidbit about that particular trait of Jack's (with more than a modicum of relief), John had thought about his grandfather Peter, the way the man would waste his breath on about four words for the _day_ , even if someone was on fire. Yep, Jack is Peter-material, through and through.

Some people, maybe those with the same mindset as Holly, might probably go on and on about _too little too late_. Maybe, yeah, but John is willing to live with it. He has to, anyway. It's not like he has a choice or anything like that, and if asked if he would do it the same way over again, he'd probably say yes.

"Get over it, Dad," Lucy says to him now in very severe tones, but he hears the smile from her too. "You okay?"

He loves this about his daughter, he really does. Lucy is opinionated and contrary and has a stubborn streak roughly the width of a football field; with parents like Holly and himself, John doesn't wonder about this at all. Underneath all that, though, is a young woman who cares a lot. At least, John seems to be the constant object of this kind of attention from her nowadays and he doesn't mind at all. She calls him randomly to find out if he's doing fine and John is going to fucking _wallow_ in that if he wants to.

"Yeah, I'm good, just checking up on this one suspicious asshole of a husband. The wife isn't all pearls and lace, either, but there you go. You?"

"Oh, okay," she says and then launches into a long diatribe about one of her professors and their penchant for heaping unnecessary work upon their hapless students; John nurses a little fantasy about going down and breaking this professor's head, but Lucy says, "I mean, I'm managing just fine, but I just want to break his _head_ sometimes," and John barely manages to swallow down a guffaw of laughter.

"Guess who I saw today," he says when she winds down. "Farrell. Matthew Farrell, our favourite computer genius."

"Really?!" She sounds delighted. She had liked Matt, probably still does, and John wonders if she knows about Mel, that mysterious girlfriend. "Wow, I haven't seen him in like, a year or so."

John is taken aback, he doesn't know why. "Wait, you saw him a year ago?"

"Or was it ten months? Not as long as a year, but yeah, I think he was visiting somewhere close and dropped by. He didn't stay long, though. How is he?"

"Looks just the same," John says truthfully. John really thinks that Matt actually looked _nice_ , but that was a train of thought he was either unwilling or too old to pursue. "And talks just as much." _Or maybe not enough_ , John thinks, based on the way he could have moved right on John's _street_ in Brooklyn and John might not have heard a peep about it. Oh well.

Lucy laughs. "When we used to go out for pizza or something, he'd always choose this place, you know where you can see the pizza being made? And he'd just yak at the guy making the pizza, to see if he'd drop it. It was pretty funny."

John wants to ask her if they had ever actually _dated_ , but he knows no way of saying that without coming across as weird or as an creepy asshole father, and he's trying to be mellow nowadays, so he puts that question away. "I bet it was."

"You know how he is," she says and then groans. "Oh man, I have the Dreaded Lecturer in about ten minutes. I'll call you later, Daddy."

"No problem, honey," he tells her, and he can call her honey anytime he wants, no matter how she snorts before she hangs up; because she called him _Daddy_ , and it was all fine.

*

"John, hey!" Matt sounds as if John is returning from a year in the Andes when he walks into the crowded restaurant and taps him on the shoulder. "I thought you stood me up, man."

He moves deeper into the curved booth so that John can slide in. "Oh, give me those," he commands and takes the folders from John to put them in the empty space across the table. He's sitting pretty close, having to turn his head and squint at John as he speaks. "Dude, are you taking work home with you?"

John grins wryly at him. "You keep calling me 'dude'," he notes, reaching for the menu. "I know you want to keep me young, but sometimes you have to know when there's a hopeless case, you know?"

"I'll call you dude forever," Matt says from around his grin and John groans at this promise. "Ready to order?"

John peers down the list. He'd love to try the chilli, but he probably has to pussy out and get the mild version; he'd be up all night with his stomach trying to burn its way out of his body if he took it too spicy. Matt waves down a passing waitress, smiling up at her openly while he rattles off his own order.

"And to drink?" The waitress looks tired, but she's smiling back at Matt.

"Uh, I'll just take some orange juice," he finally decides and wrinkles his nose at John's raised eyebrows. "Yeah, I'm weaning myself from the caffeine, ok?"

"Wonders," John replies gravely, "will never cease. I'll have the chilli, mild, and some coffee," he orders and it's Matt's turn to yuck it up with the eyebrows.

"Twilight Zone," is all he says about _that_ , and then launches into something else immediately. "What's in the folder? A case you're working on, right? What's it about... unless it's like a secret, like you can't tell me, that's totally fine."

"No, I can tell you." John shakes his head at him. "You know, I bet when you're my age, you'll still be rambling just like that."

"I _ramble_?" Matt says, placing disbelieving fingers against his chest, but his eyes are smiling nonetheless. He's wearing a pair of fingerless gloves, which kind of emphasize that he has really nice, long fingers. "I mean, you're a bad friend, John McClane. You could have told me a long time ago that I _ramble_."

"I would have, but I haven't seen you in _four fucking years_ ," John scolds half-heartedly and the kid just rolls his eyes at him.

"Dude, you're too ancient to hold four years against me, time to let it go."

John is torn between laughing his head off and smacking him upside the back of the head; this back-and-forth should be freaking him out, maybe a little, at how easy and relaxed it all is. This is a person _half his age_ , with experiences miles apart from what he's been through and who he is. But he finds it a nice break from his own dour mind, sometimes.

"Ok, smart guy," John concedes and begins to explain about the case he's handling. Minor stuff, a rich yuppie-type lady wanting to track her husband's questionable activities; John already has enough evidence to prove that Mr. Yuppie is indeed fucking another woman, an unsurprising newer module of Mrs. Yuppie. John has no doubt that this news will make Mrs. Yuppie delighted, considering the prenuptial agreement.

"Huh," Matt says, "Did she slink into your office in a tight red dress, all curves and wavy blonde hair like you always see on TV?"

"The lady is as thin as a rail and about as curvy as one. Besides, do I look like Humphrey Bogart to you?" John asks and holds up his hand as Matt opens his mouth. "Don't answer that. You probably don't even know who Humphrey Bogart is, anyway."

" _Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship_ ," Matt quotes in a surprisingly good approximation of Bogart's rasping, twanging voice and he shrugs at John's expression concedes a point to him. "My mom used to watch a lot of that stuff. Made me watch it with her, _Casablanca_ was her favourite."

When John asks what _his_ favourite is, (because he actually _wants_ to know, ain't that a bitch) Matt grins and and goes into this long diatribe about Star Wars. John watched the first three... or the last three first, according to Matt.

"You know what, this is nice. We should have lunch, like, on a regular basis or something," Matt says as they're finishing, grinning as he pops a french fry in his mouth; John mock-frowns at him. Matt's face lights up like daybreak when he's happy.

"Matt, I can't deal with the daily torture."

Matt wrinkles his nose at him. "You know you'll like it, stop acting like you won't. Hey, how's Lucy?"

"She's good." John is strangely pleased that he asked. "Doing real good, she's in her last year now... but I guess you already knew that."

"Yeah, I know. One day," Matt continues, a hopeful tinge to his voice, "I'd like to meet the rest of your family. I mean, I've only heard about Holly and Jack from Lucy."

John looks at him carefully for a second or two before saying, "Yeah, well. I guess you could, if you really wanted to." Matt's probably saying that to be polite, nice as he naturally is, but Matt's expression seems to be delighted at the thought.

"Really? Think you might have them up for Thanksgiving, or something? I mean, not that I'm gonna burst in on your family and make a scene or anything, but it'll be kind of cool, I guess, finally getting to see the rest of the McClane clan--"

"Holly goes by Gennero," John cuts in with a wry smile, "you remember."

Matt nods. His long hair flops on his face and John struggles with this very strong urge to reach forward and brush it out of his eyes. While he's willing his hand to stay still, Matt says, "And Jack? Don't tell me he shuns your name, too. That would be sad, I have to say."

John shakes his head and finally pushes his plate away. "No, Jack is still a McClane, for whatever good he gets out of it." He watches as Matt puts aside a remaining half of that huge sandwich he ordered, with some of his fries. He does this in a neat manner, obviously waiting for the waitress to come and put it in some take-out box.

"Mel loves this," Matt explains, catching John's curious expression. "I can hardly get her to eat dinner like a regular human being, but give her fries and a sandwich any time of the day and she's all over that."

"Sounds like a great girl, though," John says and Matt's eyes go soft and happy. John really hopes that this Mel chick shits rainbows, or something; she better _keep_ Matt this happy, that's all he's saying, seriously.

"She's my everything." Matt's voice is quietly sincere and John nods. Matt looks right in his face for a moment, pursing his lips. "Hey. Um... do you want to meet her?"

"You _want_ me to meet her?" John asks, smiling up at the waitress as she comes for their plates. He's reaching into his pocket for his wallet, but Matt is giving him a severe look and dragging out his own billfold first, taking out crisp notes and placing them on the table. John rolls his eyes, chuckling as he returns his wallet. "Sure you want some grizzly ex-cop getting too close to your precious Mel? I remember you were once dead-set against The Man."

Matt laughs and John notices that he has really nice, straight teeth; he needs to look into this very serious problem of noticing things about Matt. It's distracting and he's thinking that he's a bit too old for that.

"That was before The Man kicked in my apartment door and made sure my ass was bullet-free." Matt leans forward, his eyes intent and sincere. "I really want you to meet her. If you have the time now, we can just take a little walk, it's not far."

John glances at his watch unnecessarily. It's not like he has any set time to be in office or anything, but he likes putting in regular hours at Solomon's, mainly out of pure habit. He has a meeting with Mrs. Yuppie today, but that won't be for a few hours, at least.

"Sure," he finally says, "Sure, kid, that's fine by me."

They exit that simple, warm little eatery, walking side by side with their hands stuck in the pockets of their jackets. The wind is cold, and it turns Matt's cheeks and nose red, and twists the ends of his hair playfully. Matt spends a long time laughing at John's knitted cap when John pulls it out of his pocket and yanks it over his head.

"Patreece made it for me," John says, batting away Matt's hands when he pulls at the popples that hang off the sides of the soft hat. "Yeah, keep laughing. When all your hair freezes and falls off, don't come crying to me."

"No, it's cute, man!" Matt exclaims, but he's snickering far too hard through that statement, barely catching his breath to ask, "Patreece?"

"Co-worker. Drop by Solomon's sometime, maybe you can charm her into making one for you."

"Or Mel, she'd _love_ one in bright pink. The brighter and pinker, the better. I swear, one day she'll be wearing something neon-pink and I'll have to walk five feet behind her, just to see properly."

They turn a corner and amble down a narrow, quiet road, the buildings older than the ones on the main street. John hears the sound of children playing in the narrow front yard of one red-bricked building and follows Matt towards the sound.

There are two ladies standing outside a small day-care center, watching over the hyperactive children bouncing around the tiny play area. One has bristly red hair styled into a short bob, but there are grey streaks running through it and a silver band on her left ring-finger, so John doubts this is the beloved Mel. The other woman is young and pleasantly plump, her round face lighting up when she sees Matt approaching. She brushes her curly hair away from her face and comes close to the low fence, where John and Matt are standing at the sidewalk.

"Hey, you're early!" She says with a large grin, a silver stud glinting from one side of her nose. John notices the edge of a black tattoo curling against the olive-toned skin of her neck. "Wasn't expecting you for another thirty minutes or so."

Matt's grin is huge, and John feels a little odd sliver in his chest. He can't explain it.

"But that's cool, right?" Matt asks, bouncing a little on his heels.

"Yeah, sure!" Her large dark eyes flicker inquisitively to John, who nods at her. He's gonna be real polite, not a problem.

"Oh," Matt says, and puts his hand on John's shoulder briefly. "Miss Vega, this is my friend, John McClane."

She continues to stare at him, her brow now furrowing. "I know that name, I think. And I think I've seen your face before, you know?"

"It's a common name, and my face is pretty universal too," John says easily and Matt chuckles beside him as Miss Vega tilts her head, continuing to ponder his familiarity. He's about to ask her where she got the _Mel_ from, what it's short for, when she turns her head and hollers, "Mel!" and John thinks, _huh, not Mel_ , _then_.

He stares as a little pink bundle comes hopping down the front step of the day-care center, hanging onto each of the banister-railings with two small hands. The pink bundle rushes across the play-area, dodging other children and literally shimmying around Miss Vega, before stopping at the fence and jumping about excitedly. Matt, his grin nearly splitting his face in half, reaches over the fence and plucks the small person wrapped in a pink puffy jacket and pink jeans from the ground, kissing a cheek hidden below the hood of the jacket.

"Mel," Matt murmurs, one hand deftly unfastening the pull-strings of the hood as he holds the child in the crook of his other arm. "You put your jacket on all by yourself?"

"Yeah!" A tiny voice pipes up and as Matt pulls off the pink hood, John sees a round, flushed face, large brown eyes and brown hair sticking up in all directions. The little girl is grinning and even from the side, John observes that her smile is just like Matt's, wide and unrestrained.

"This is the infamous Mel," Matt says, turning a little so that Mel and John can look at each other. "Melody Antonia Farrell. I want to call her Toni all the time, but she _hates_ that."

"Hey, there," John says quietly, still a little stunned, because this is a _child_ , a little girl... _Matt's_ little girl. Mel's grin fades a little as she stares at him. "Hello, Mel."

"Say hello," Matt urges and she leans her head on his shoulder, not saying anything at all, just looking at John carefully. "This is John, he's my friend."

"Fren'?" Melody echoes after a little while, looking up in Matt's face before returning her gaze to John. Matt smiles and nods, bouncing her a bit.

"Yeah, he saved your dad's life once or fifteen times, you know?"

Melody looks unimpressed with this snippet of information. She simply lifts her hand and sticks a thumb in her mouth, considering John with those big brown eyes.

John wonders where her mother is, and makes a mental note to ask Matt pretty soon.

Matt chats a little with Miss Vega as she hands over a small square lunchbox, light pink in colour, and a tiny knapsack. Mel struggles a little in Matt's arms, and he sets her down, handing her the lunchbox when she opens and closes her hands at him plaintively.

"Let's roll. Bye, Miss Vega!" Matt looks down at her and unzips her knapsack to place the wrapped half of the sandwich in it; then he slings it over his own shoulder, reaching down to grasp her hand. "Bye, Mrs. Nelson!"

"Bye!" Mel screeches in a surprisingly loud voice, considering her size. John blinks and puts a finger to one ear; he'd forgotten just how loud children could get. "Bye Miz Vega! Bye Miz Nelson!"

Matt and John walk off with her, stepping slowly as she turns to wave at her teachers and they wave back.

"Take care, Mel-Mel!" Miss Vega calls and Melody grins, her little arm moving enthusiastically. When she turns back around and walks in that deep contentment that only small children can possess, Matt asks her questions about her day. She answers in rattling, nonsensical sentences, which have little to no proper English in them, but Matt nods seriously as if she's giving a well-practiced speech on computer systems, or something. John can't stop staring at Matt and his kid; it seems so strange, because he never pegged Matt as the parental type.

"How old is she?" John asks when they reach the main road and Matt sweeps her up into his arms again, ignoring her complaining sounds. She wants to walk by herself, apparently, but Matt says, "Relax, kiddo," and Melody subsides with a massive frown.

"Um, she's going to be three in a few weeks, and we're gonna have a birthday party, right, Mel?" He grins at her and Melody's frown melts at the mention of _party_. "Yeah, I know you'll like that." He looks over her head at John and shrugs a little. "I mean, I know she's kind of young, and I don't like leaving her at the daycare, but it's the best I can do for now, you know? My workplace isn't too far, either, and from what I see, she likes her teachers."

"I wasn't even thinking about that," John admits, and Mel twists around at the sound of his voice, squinting at him. Her eyes are a darker brown than Matt's, but the tilt of them is the same. Her hair is also curlier and she has the finger of one hand twisting in a dark lock while she's back to sucking her thumb. "You do what you have to do."

Matt gives him a long, considering gaze as they continue to walk, the wide sidewalk fairly clear since it isn't the end of the work-day as yet. Matt stops at a subway entrance, looking down the steps briefly; he shifts Mel to his other arm, smiling up at John.

"So. I'm just going to mosey on home, make some dinner, get crazy with the Cookie Monster here." He blows a raspberry on Mel's round cheek and she chortles in a hoarse baby-laugh. "Lunch tomorrow, right?"

"Definitely," John says firmly and waves at Mel, who surprises him by waving back, her plump little fingers waggling merrily. "Take care, Mel."

"Bye!"

Apparently, Mel's favourite word is _bye_ , and she uses it with vim and vigour. Matt makes a face.

"Dude, not so loud," he mutters at his daughter, who wrinkles her little nose at him. He stares in John's face for a long moment, smiling slightly. "So. Right, tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," John replies and shoves him lightly on his free shoulder. "Get outta here, Matt. You'll probably stand here saying goodbye to me the whole damn evening, if I leave you to it."

Matt laughs self-consciously. "Right, right," he says in a slightly embarrassed tone and heads down the stairway quickly. Mel is peeping over his shoulder as he descends and she continues to wave at John, her little hand the last thing John sees before Matt rounds a corner and they're gone.

*

"A _kid_?!" Lucy says loudly into John's ear, and then coughs hard; he pulls away the telephone, looks wryly at it and puts it back to his ear. "Get out, Dad, stop pulling my leg. Are you _serious_?"

"Of course I'm serious, you think I just make up shit like that for a laugh, Luce?" John pushes aside the documents he'd been looking at, reclining against the pile of pillows on his bed. He hears the old brownstone apartment settling around him, stairs creaking, walls groaning softly. The lamp beside him flickers a little before going back to its steady light; John hopes he doesn't forget to check the wiring this weekend.

" _Dad_ ," Lucy now says censoriously, and John can just imagine her frowning as she sits on her bed or at her desk, a pencil in her hair as she pores over her work. "Come on. Wow, a _daughter_. I didn't know that at all. What's her name?"

John feels a little smug that he found out before Lucy did. "Melody. She's a loud kid, when she's ready. But Matt loves her to pieces."

"Awww, that's so _sweet_!" Lucy coos and John is just about to tease her when he hears a male voice rumbling sleepily in the background.

"Lucy, who's that?" John sits up, feeling his face turn to stone. "Your not-boyfriend?"

"Dad," Lucy says, her voice going a little dry. "Don't you--"

"It's nearly eight," John cuts in sharply. "What's he doing at your dorm at eight in the damned night?"

"Because I'm actually an adult making my own decisions, _John_ ," she snaps and John holds the phone so tightly, he hears it give a complaining groan.

"Yeah?" He asks softly, threateningly.

"Yeah," she returns instantly, and her voice is just the same as his; she's his _daughter_ , what the hell is he supposed to do? He does what the shrink he used to see down by the precinct had said he should try whenever he feels like breaking something: he takes a deep breath and releases it _very_ slowly.

"Okay," is all he lets out after that breath and it's the worst word he's ever had to say, because it's the only thing he can allow out. "Okay."

"Okay, Dad," she echoes after a long pause and the guy mutters something and John shakes his head in a mixture of resigned, simmering irritation. "His name's Nick... Nicholas," she offers reluctantly and that's a start, that's a _start_ , because maybe John can get a last name real soon and then he'll just take this guy _right out_.

"Nicholas." John says the name with a curl of his top lip. "Hmm. That's the patron saint of kids, by the way."

"Yeah?" The defensive streak in her voice is still there, but it's fading. She sneezes. "Dad, that’s so weird that you know that."

"I got a lot of useless information up in this old noggin, Luce. And you better be taking _something_ for that cold, baby."

"I _am_. Nick's taking care of me." She sneezes again, ignoring John's heavy exhalation. "Anyway. Who's the patron saint of cops?" she asks casually, the smile coming back to her voice.

John hears the guy, Nicholas, he's telling Lucy that he'll see her tomorrow and John thinks, _yeah buddy, get your ass outta there_ , even while he replies, "That's easy: St. Michael. The Archangel."

"Oh yeah, I remember," Lucy says comfortably and the old house creaks around him as they talk quietly.

*

"Is there a patron saint called Matthew?" Matt's grin is highly impish at lunch the next day and John sips his water, nodding his head as he smiles around the straw.

"Yeah. Patron saint of geeks."

"Get out, man," Matt laughs and steals a couple of fries, sneaky-fast before John can bat his hand away. John's gonna pay for these fries later, he knows that, but these are _good_.

"Saint Matthew," John intones, taking the pickles out of his sandwich, "is the patron saint of accountants, tax collectors, banking folk... you know."

"That's cool, actually. So this Nicholas dude," Matt begins and the corner of John's left eye twitches at the name, "when are you going to roll him down a ditch?"

"Oh God, Matt, come on," John laughs, but Matt shoots him a narrow, knowledgeable glance and his grin is hard.

"All I'm saying, I don't know what I'm gonna do when Mel starts thinking, _oh hey, there are boys around, sweet_ ," he explains and John blinks, suddenly realizing that Matt _understands_ now, that if he doesn't get it the way John gets it, he might at least comprehend that tight, worrisome sensation when a parent gets when they realize that no matter how much they think _at_ their kid, no matter how much they _talk_ , said kid has on their own crazy, wonderful mind and will use it to give their folks heart-attacks.

"Tell you what," John proposes over the small slices of pie that the waitress brings over, "when Mel gets to that point, I'll help you do some rolling of your own."

"John McClane, you're my one true friend," Matt says warmly and they chuckle together like the two old connivers they are.

  
 **2.**  
"I'm here," John says unnecessarily as Matt opens the door. The place he and Mel are at really isn't far from John's place at all. Well, it's actually a fair amount of blocks, but John prefers to walk most places these days, as far as he can help it. He doesn't have much luck with public transportation, unfortunately.

"I _walked_ , kid," he tells Matt, trying to manufacture a scowl. Matt just smiles at him, this soft sweet movement of his lips. John just has to smile back; he can't seem to help it.

"How many times do you want me to say _sorry_ , McClane? Jeez." Matt holds open the door, and John steps from the tiny patio into an equally tiny foyer, eyeing the stairs. This house appears as old as his, and seems to be laid out in about the same fashion: narrow and tall, although his probably feels a bit better. There are two sides to the stairs, one that leads down to the basement level and the other side which goes up to the dining, living and kitchen areas. The stairs turn up again, heading to the bedrooms. In John's place, he has three bedrooms crammed up there. Sometimes he wonders what he's doing with that much space, because it takes up a big chunk of his time to clean and maintain, but he actually doesn't mind it.

"I'll get over it, some day," John concedes, and then raises his eyebrows at the childish laughter coming from the dining room. It is very high-pitched, and slightly maniacal.

"Ice-cream," Matt says, and shrugs with a resigned grin. "And chips. And maybe some more ice-cream."

"Hopefully you haven't started your kid on caffeine as yet," John says, only half-joking, but Matt laughs as if it's the best joke he's ever heard. They're still standing in the foyer, albeit rather close, but John doesn't want to move away.

"Hey, let me take this," Matt says, and reaches up to slide his hands under the lapels of John's jacket, easing it off his shoulders. John moves away from his touch, removing the wrapped box he had been carrying under his arm and shrugging off from the inviting warmth of Matt's fingers in one movement. He pulls off his jacket by himself, suddenly feeling as if he's running on top of a speeding truck again: out of balance, unsure as to what he should be doing....and utterly exhilarated.

Matt gives him a quick, searching look as he retrieves the jacket from John and hangs it in the narrow closet in the foyer. "Ready?" he asks, as if they're about to storm a den of crack dealers. Considering the age of the suspects, and what they've been consuming, John braces himself. Before they go up the stairs, Matt reaches out and touches his hand, looking up in John's face intently.

"Thanks for coming," he says. "Seriously, it was just me and Mel and some kids from her pre-school." He makes a face. "And my Aunt Ida and Uncle Joe. So at least I've got you for company."

"My pleasure," John murmurs, and discovers that there's a world of truth in those two words. Matt beams at him, and then leads him up the stairs into the combined space of the living and dining room. It's fairly dark, even though it's still a bright, cool afternoon outside. The curtains, John discovers, are tightly closed. In the living room, the furniture is pushed back a little in a futile attempt to create more space for the small children and their long-suffering parents. Melody is hopping around a low coffee-table in full pink-hued regalia: a pink shirt with jeans to match, and fuschia ribbons at the ends of her two short pigtails. John has a sudden mental image of Matt combing his daughter's hair, and he smiles.

Matt introduces him to the other adults seated, and they either give him bored stares, or weak, distracted waves. Three other children are scampering around the table with Melody, yelling at the top of their lungs. John eyes the imposing wooden cabinets: there are about three of them in placed in the corners of the room and filled with delicate bric-a-brac. If any of the children stumble into one of the cabinets, (and John can just see how easily that could happen with all this zooming about), then it would be a disaster. John's living-room used to be stuffed to the gills with shit like that, collected by his mother over nearly a half-century of marriage and kids. He'd boxed them up, and stashed them in the attic. Maybe one of his own kids, or his nieces and nephews, would find some use for them soon.

"Who's that, Matthew?" a querulous voice demands from in the back, where the kitchen light is turned on. "Who's that you're letting in the house?"

"Friend of mine!" Matthew gives John a wry look. John twitches his eyebrows in response. The parents continue their disinterested existence. "He's a cop!"

"Not anymore, kid," John reminds him, squinting in the direction of the kitchen. A pale face looms over the dividing counter, and a woman with lots of messy grey hair stares at him. Her top lip is wrinkled as if she's smelled something rank.

"Oh, yeah, _was_ a cop!" Matt yells, and stumbles a little when Melody careens into him, grapples his legs and yells something completely nonsensical. Matt reaches down to lift her, but she darts away again, laughing her head off. John thinks she laughs a lot like her father.

Especially now that she's all jacked up on sugar.

"Can't trust cops!" Another voice, just as quarrelsome as the woman's, bellows from upstairs. "Not at all, no sir!"

"Shut up, Joe!" The woman, presumably Ida, shrieks. John sees Matt closing his eyes briefly, as if he's in pain. Melody and her friends seem unfazed by the yelling, mainly because they're doing such a great job of trying to out-bellow the competition.

"I got Melody something," John says, feeling awkward in his attempt to diffuse the crazy atmosphere. Matt's wide-eyed gaze locks with his, and he looks surprised and pleased. "A gift," John continues, 'cause he's Captain Obvious today, or something. He holds out the wrapped box and after a few beats, Matt takes it, looking at the brightly coloured paper.

"Wow, McClane." Matt bites his lower lip and glances up at John again, an odd expression on his face. "Thanks."

"It's not for _you_ ," John says, and feels one side of his lip quirk up. "You wanted one for yourself? Should have told me."

"Shut up," Matt says, rolling his eyes. "Mel!"

Mel answers, "Daddy?" in an astonishingly sweet and clear manner, considering the fact that she's trying to climb a squat armchair from the back. John takes a moment to reconcile the fact that she's calling Matt _Daddy_ , because he _is_. _Shit_ , John thinks, not for the first nor last time. _Shit, the kid's a dad._

"Hey, check it out, McClane got you something," Matt tells her and kneels down when Mel runs over to him. "Say 'thanks, McClane'."

"Thanks McClane!" Mel repeats, grinning up at John. She can't pronounce his name properly, so it comes out as _My Cane_. "Thanks!" she tells him again, for good measure and John gives her a wink.

She seems so tickled over that and she tries it out herself, but she only succeeds in blinking both eyelids.

"Okay, here." Matt helps her to rip the paper from the box, and then he exclaims, "Cool!"

"It's not a doll," John says. "I'm not putting your kid on _that_ road so early in life."

" _Collectibles_ , John, they were collectibles before you trashed my place," Matt mutters, but he's focused on trying to get the music box out of its plastic wrapping. "Look, it's pink, too!"

"Pink!" Melody echoes and then her eyes go wide when Matt opens the latch and lifts the cover of the music-box. A little ballerina in the requisite pink tulle pops up and turns with the tinny music that plays.

"Ooooooh," Matt and Mel say together, watching the ballerina spin. The other kids crowd around; one reaches out as if he wants to pluck the little dancer from her spot, but Matt blocks his hand with casual ease.

"This is awesome," Matt says. "And you can put stuff in here too, Mel, look at this space."

Mel peers into the storage compartment dutifully, but her attention is recaptured by the ballerina and its reflection in the small round glass that is set into the inside of the cover. John hadn't been sure at all; the woman at the toy-store had picked it out after she'd spotted John frowning at the shelves of dolls, cars and assorted lunacy.

"Thanks," Matt says again, looking up at John with those liquid brown eyes. John nods, slowly.

After the three candles are blown out and slices of cake are consumed, the parents and their kids leave (the children clutching small loot-bags, pink of course; John finds that charmingly old-school, giving out favours like that), John helps Matt to clean up and move the furniture back into place. He also finds out that he was the only one to bring a gift.

"I mean, it's not a big deal," Matt says, grunting as they're pulling the longer sofa away from the wall. John thinks it looks better against the wall, but Aunt Ida apparently likes her furniture sitting almost atop each other. Mel is curled up on the armchair she had been trying to climb earlier, her music box placed beside her.

"But it's a kid's birthday party, you can't be showing up without _something_ ," John says and shoves an ottoman against a recliner with his foot. "Jeez."

"Times are hard," Matt says, and stands there with his hands on his hips, just looking at John for a long moment. "People can't afford to buy gifts, whatever. It's cool that they came." He's looking right into John's eyes, and John returns the stare. "It's cool that _you_ came."

"I was in the neighbourhood," John says, softly and Matt's laugh is just as low. Aunt Ida had stomped up the stairs a few minutes after Matt had gone into the kitchen to bring out the cake. Now and again, John can hear sullen mutters filtering from the floor above.

Matt says, "Hey, I'm going to bring the monster up to our room, okay? Just...I'll be right back."

John watches Matt scoop his daughter up, very gently. He sees how Matt puts his hand behind her head, and listens to how he makes comforting noises when Melody whimpers in her sleep. Matt manages to get her slumped in the crook of one hand, and picks up the music box with the other, walking towards the stairs at a steady pace.

John sits and waits for about ten minutes. As soon as Matt comes back downstairs, he asks, "You share a room with Mel?"

Matt blinks at him, and then shakes his head. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've arrived at the interrogation portion of the evening. Right?"

John inclines his head. "Possibly."

"I'm probably going to need something other than cola in my system, then," Matt says and goes into the kitchen. "Need anything? Beer? Water? Truth serum?"

"None of the above," John tells him. Matt returns with a cup of fruit juice and sits beside John on the sofa, taking a few slow sips.

"Okay, here's the deal. You do your investigator thing, but I reserve the right to pass on answering any question I don't want to answer." Matt takes another sip, staring ahead.

"Where's Melody's mom?" John asks, right off the bat.

"Not here." Matt lets out a sharp exhalation through his nose. "Immediate pass on telling you any details for that right now."

"Fine," John says, and then he just goes quiet for a long moment. It's a trick that generally works when trying to make suspects talk, and during his extended pause Matt starts to squirm, a little. However, Matt says nothing, and John mentally assigns him some points.

"Why are you in one room with Mel?"

Matt shrugs. "My Aunt Ida and Uncle Joe have one room for themselves, one room that we have, and another for storing shit, I guess."

John hazards a guess: "Must be hell getting all your computer stuff into the one room," and at that, Matt actually loses that sudden hardness he had gained a few minutes ago and laughs, almost spilling his juice.

"Yeah. It works out, though. Mel's bed doesn't take up much space, and my bed takes up even less, so...we make it work."

"Farrell. _Hackboy_ ," John stresses, and waits until Matt turns his head to look at John with a wry grin. They're sitting very close, and John is suddenly aware of the warmth coming from Matt, how the side of his leg is pressed against John's, long and slender. It feels like a strong leg; John shifts his away, a minute move but Matt's gaze still flickers down to consider his knee before snapping back to his face.

Matt seems amused, in a resigned sort of way and John tries to remember what he had been trying to say.

Oh, yeah. "You could have stayed with me. I have the space."

Matt huffs out laughter. "I thought about that. I mean, if it was just me, sure, just like before. But with Mel, I didn't want to...intrude, or whatever."

"Right," John drawls out. " _That's_ a reasonable excuse. Well," he says as he stands up and glances around the dreary room, overpopulated with furniture. "It's a standing offer. I got two spare rooms, and guess what? There's actual sunlight in my living room, believe it or not."

"Tempting," Matt says as he gets to his feet as well. He keeps looking in John's face as if the solution to some code is written on John's forehead or something. It should make John uncomfortable, but it doesn't...and it _does_ , in a way, but it's not a _bad_ uncomfortable.

John can't explain it. He's not sure if he wants to. Also, he might be a bit too old to be this confused.

"I'm serious," John tells him, and Matt tilts his head to one side. "Standing offer."

"Heard you the first time," Matt tells him, half-smiling.

"Did you? You look kinda blank there, I was wondering--"

"Shut your face, McClane," Matt says and holds out his hand. John takes it and gives it a firm shake. Matt pulls him in for one of those manly hugs, clapping him on the shoulder a few times before releasing him.

"Lunch, tomorrow," Matt says in decisive tones, and all John wants to do is agree.

So he does.

*

"Awww," Lucy says, her voice taking up its usual happy spot in John's ear as he walks to the diner he and Matt have been eating at nearly every day. "She sounds so precious, Daddy!"

John thinks about how Mel called Matt _Daddy_ and agrees. "You'd love her, hun."

"I _already_ love her!" Lucy laughs and John shakes his head at his daughter, his hard-boiled kid who faced off with terrorists and still manages to melt over news of a little girl. John doesn't think he can love her any more than at this moment. "I really want to meet her."

"Maybe you can come up for Thanksgiving. You and that Nick guy." John throws that one out, real casual. "Maybe I can get Farrell to bring her over for dinner."

"That sounds okay." Lucy doesn't sound as if she's shooting down the idea immediately. John can work with that. "Maybe Jack, too."

"Yeah, maybe," John says, looking up to see Matt standing near the door, smiling at a group of people who are talking animatedly with him. They look like college kids, maybe from that art institute a few blocks down. Matt tilts his head back, laughing at their antics. He fits right in, like some dude on break from classes, and not a father waiting to have lunch with a wrung-out former cop.

"Daddy?" Lucy says, bringing John back to earth. "Hey, Dad, you there?"

"Sure, pumpkin. Call you later, okay?"

He hangs up after she says goodbye, and crosses the street.

"Okay, take care," Matt says to the group and waves them off as he enters the eatery with John.

"Who were those guys?" John asks as they get their regular table and Winnie comes over with the menu.

"Oh, them?" Matt squints at his menu and chooses the same thing he usually does, a sandwich and fries. "Some kids from the school down the road. I know a couple of them, there's this one that interns in my office. Graphics major, something like that."

"You don't work full-time, though, right?" John says, and lets Matt order for him. Matt knows what he likes, anyway.

As soon as Winnie goes back to the counter, Matt leans back in his chair and gives John a sidelong look. "You know I don't go into the office full-time. I told you that, like, right from the start. Some stuff I do at home, and I can hang out with Mel."

"Hmm." John nods. "Fibbies still keep tabs on you, though," and Matt laughs, a sardonic sound.

"They _try_."

"So let me get this straight: it's work, home, eat here with me. Rinse, repeat. Don't you hang out with people your own age, Matt?" John asks and wants to nail his mouth shut for sounding so fucking stupid, but Matt only stares at him.

"No," he finally answers slowly. "I don't. Should I?"

John rests his arms on the table, leaning forward to give Matt one of his patented skewering gazes.

Matt bites the inside of his lip, and says, "So, what. It's a crime to like being around John McClane?"

"I didn't say that," John says, maintaining an even tone despite the pleasure warming his chest. "I'm just saying that I'm not exactly anyone's first pick for a friendship."

An unreadable expression flits across Matt's features and is gone before John can properly identify it.

"Hey, I guess we're having some kind of non-argument here, which is fine. But let me clear up a few things for you." Matt leans forward too, intent in his own way and John looks at his thick eyebrows, and his fine lashes and the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. "I like you," Matt says and seriously, John is really out of touch with this outspoken generation. He glances around to see if anyone is staring at them, having heard Matt's declaration. When he looks back in Matt's face, Matt is giving him the kind of smile that _John_ should be wearing, a little bit cynical and a lot patient.

"I like hanging out with you. I know we don't talk about the Fire Sale or whatever, but I know that even if I mention it, you'll _get it_." Matt's shoulders twitch in a semblance of a shrug. "I guess it was part hero-worship, but you're _John McClane_. Who wouldn't? But you know, you were kind of a dick, so I guess it comes with the territory. And another thing--"

John tunes him out a little, allowing Matt's rambling to flow over his head. It's comforting to hear, and Matt can be so animated, fingers twitching in the air, eyes opening wide. There are few people who would willingly 'hang around' John, so the fact that Matt apparently _wants to_ is quite...nice. What's the word that Matt likes to use? _Awesome._  
 _  
_"--but if it weirds you out, I dunno, we can cut down on it a little," Matt is saying when John finally dials back into his voice.

John makes a cutting motion in the air with his hand. "No," he says, a bit more sharply than intended, for Winnie seems taken aback when she brings them their plates in that same moment. "No," John continues as soon as she leaves.

He doesn't offer any clarification and Matt nods.

"Okay. Because if it _did_ weird you out, then I'd...I mean, I was considering that standing offer of yours. _Really_ considering it." Matt takes a bite out of his sandwich and chews almost theatrically. "I'd help out with the bills, and if you have to go out of town, at least there's someone at your house, I guess? I'd have to put Mel on perimeter watch, though."

"Come on, Matt," John says, laughing. The _things_ this kid says; John can hardly get some of this soup in his spoon. "Jesus."

"It'll be just like before." Matt grins at him. "And Mel can get her own room... right?"

"Sure thing."

"As long as it's not a problem--"

"Kid, it's not a problem. Leave it at that."

Matt just considers him for a few long beats. "I'm going to start packing after Halloween, then. Oh, by the way, you're trick-or-treating with me and Mel."

"Sounds like I don't have a choice," John remarks.

Matt narrows his eyes. "You gave my daughter a pink music box that she plays so many times, I _dream_ the damn song. Believe me, you don't have a choice."

*

John is glad to close Mrs. Yuppie's case on Halloween. He doesn't like cases such as this one; they leave a bad taste in his mouth. He supposes he's doing a mental comparison of the work he did as a cop to this, and it never sits easy with him, especially when he sees the nasty smile on Mrs. Yuppie's face when Solomon hands over her copy of John's report. He thinks about the offer he'd received before he officially retired: captain of a precinct.

John figures he would have been dead in the first year.

So he takes his suspiciously well-padded pension, does his job at Solomon's and he talks to at least one of his kids nearly every day. It's not throwing cars at bad guys, and there are times he actually wishes that something more _exciting_ would happen, but these are very vague hopes. John is pretty convinced that if trouble _wants_ to find him, it'll find him.

On a whim, he calls his son.

"Dad," Jack says in monotone when he picks up, the line so clear it's like he's standing beside John. He sounds sullen, but John has learned that this is Jack's default voice when answering the phone.

"Jack," John replies and there's that awkward pause that neither of them can ever fill. John clears his throat and then gets right to it: "I wanted to know if you could make it up here for Thanksgiving."

"To New York?" Amazingly, there's a note of surprise and John feels a little bit pleased at pulling such a reaction out of him. "I usually spend Thanksgiving with Mom."

"Yeah, of course." John nods as he tidies his desk. Patreece squints at him and he smiles at her, distracted by his disappointment. "Maybe next year."

"No, wait. I'll ask her," Jack says. "If she wants to come, that is. She might not stay at the house, though." There's a low, huffing sound that is possibly his version of a laugh, John isn't sure. "You know Mom. She's convinced that you're going to get blown up every holiday, or something."

"Yeah, you ask her," John says and is amazed at how calm he sounds, when he's actually stunned at Jack's receptiveness. He knows that when it comes right down to the wire, Jack is probably going to stick with Holly, but at least Jack seems willing. It's a pretty huge step in John's world.

"Talk to you soon, son," he tells Jack.

"Sure thing, Dad," Jack answers, and when John hangs up the phone, he feels as if his smile is going to split his face in half.

"John McClane, you done look like the cat that got into the cream," Patreece observes and then wrinkles her nose when John narrows his eyes at her. He leaves the new cases that Solomon assigned to him on his desk, and makes his way home.

He meets Matt outside his relative's house, standing at the bottom of the steps and holding Melody by one hand.

"Fairy? Princess? Or ballerina?" John guesses when he takes in the purple crown, the wand and the pink tutu. Melody's hair is pulled into a neat bun and she waves her wand at him in greeting. There's a small pink tote bag hanging over her other plump arm, and Matt pulls the hood of her puffy jacket over her head.

"It's a magical combination of all three, dude!" Matt grins down at his daughter with deep affection. "Right, Mel-mel?"

"Yeah!" Mel answers and then she blinks at John, hard. John realizes she's trying to wink at him, and so he drops a conspiratorial one in return. Matt laughs at them both, and they all set off down the block, meandering around other families.

John tries to take back that thought, _other families_ , but it gets stuck in his mind as he walks with Matt and Melody.

"Cecilia was her mom's name," Matt says out of the blue as they watch Melody trot up a staircase and get candy in her tote-bag.

John says, "Yeah?" but doesn't push it. At every stop for candy, people smiling at Melody's enthusiastic yells of 'Trick or Treat!', a little more of the story comes out.

"I worked at a bar after I left your place, down in Jersey," Matt tells him, and John doesn't ask him why he left in the first place. It had been real comfortable having Matt puttering around, but Matt'll tell him when the time is right. "Celia, she started working a few months after I did." A smile that isn't really a smile at all briefly alights on his mouth, and then goes away. "She was a hot mess, you know? But the thing I liked about her, she wasn't apologetic about it at all. It was take it or leave it." Matt glances at him. "She reminded me of you, kinda. Only with more hair. And a nicer rack."

"Nice to know you think I'm a hot mess," John mutters and Matt shakes his head.

"You know you are." Matt holds out his hand for his daughter, and one more stop passes in relative silence before Matt speaks up again.

"She was pregnant when I met her," Matt says as he watches Melody carefully clamber up a particularly tricky set of front steps. He's pointedly not looking at John's face; John thinks his eyebrows are somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline, he's that incredulous.

"What?" John says. He can't _believe_ this shit.

"She had no family, McClane," Matt sighs. "She didn't know who the biological father was. She just...you know what she told me? That I shouldn't take a chance on her. I shouldn't _bet_ on her, for anything." He finally chances a quick glance in John's direction. "Sound like anybody you know?"

John lets out a hard exhalation through his nostrils, seeing the puffs of his breath waft up in the cool air.

"She didn't get that abortion she was planning, we lived together and it was... it was okay, you know? It wasn't perfect, but it was okay." Matt closes his eyes briefly and shrugs, then brightens when Melody comes running back to him, showing him the packaged cookie someone had placed in her bag. "Wow, that is one huge cookie."

"Funny how you can just condense the life you spend with someone into a few words," John remarks, thinking of his own divorce papers with Holly. "So. When did she skip out on you?"

Matt says, "Wow, super-cop strikes again. A little after Mel turned one." He stops walking, staring down at the pavement beneath his sneakers. "I didn't expect it, and at the same time, I did. I stuck around for nearly a year, thinking she'd come back for Mel, but she didn't. Then I got the job-offer here and that was it."

"She left her kid with you, just like that."

Matt's head snaps around and John receives a glare so sharp, it threatens to flay the skin from his bones. He hasn't seen that expression from Matt in awhile. Luckily Mel is up at another patio right then, tentatively petting someone's terrier before receiving her loot.

"My name is on her birth certificate. She's _my daughter_. When she was born...it's like my whole life started again, only better," Matt grinds out and then his lips pinch shut for a brief moment, so tightly that the skin around them goes paper-white. "Celia left her with me, because she knew...fuck, I don't know what she knew. But Mel's my kid." He's breathing hard and when Melody comes towards him, she stops and looks up with deep concern.

"Daddy, wha' happen?" she questions and leans on Matt's leg. She shoots John an accusing glance, as if John's the one torturing her Daddy.

"Come on," Matt says, gripping her little hand and stalking off. John follows behind, walking sedately. It's only after the next two houses that Matt turns back to him and says, "Sorry."

"It's fine," John tells him, and frowns when Matt begins to shake his head. "Stop shaking your head at me. I get it, kid."

"You do?" Matt's gaze is searching as it travels over the planes of his face. "Yeah. Of course you do."

On the way back home, Melody insists on being carried piggyback by John, and she is a warm weight against his back as he walks in bemusement.

"Is she too heavy?" Matt frets and John rolls his eyes. "No, dude, I'm concerned about your back, that's all."

"Relax, my back is better than yours," John tells him. He hasn't toted a child like this in ages, but it's not like it's a lost skill or anything.

"Every day I think someone is going to come and take her away from me," Matt mutters, and he looks so stricken that John wants to reach out and touch him. "I mean, she put my name on Mel's birth certificate, and knowing her, she's not coming back but...anything can happen. Anything at all."

John thinks about how Luce and Jack had lived with Holly all those years, far away from him, and doesn't try to comprehend Matt's fears.

"Sounds tricky," John says, very slowly. "Legally, I mean. I know a couple of family lawyers who could look into parental rights, if you want." He thinks a bit more as they walk. "But your name is on the birth certificate, and you signed it, right?" At Matt's fervent nod, John continues, "I don't know about the laws in different states, but your name on the documentation, so unless someone contests your rights as her dad, then it should be fine. Hopefully." He's glad to see the tormented cast to Matt's expression ease a bit.

"You going to tell her any of this?" John asks, angling his head back to a half-dozing Melody.

"I want to," Matt says. "But what if she hates me for it?"

John laughs as they finally make their way up the steps to Matt's place. "Trust me, Matt. There'll be a time when she'll hate you for everything, anyway."

"You're such a comfort in my times of tribulation, McClane," Matt says, and holds open the door for him. "Let us now indulge in the bounty of candy," he intones and Melody perks up right away.

*

"I think she's finally asleep," Matt says in a low tone, flopping on the couch beside John and sighing. He's changed his clothes, now sporting long, loose pajama-pants and a large t-shirt. "Jeez, remind me not to give her so much candy again. It's insane."

"I told you, but you didn't listen." John ignores his whiny noise of complaint and flips through the channels, all gleefully displaying their gory Halloween fare, before settling on _Psycho_. Matt is right beside him in the small couch and John thinks he should maybe move over, but he's warm and comfortable. He should probably get up and head on home, but Matt's sleepy commentary drags him down into a calm doze as well. It's damned cosy, for while the living and dining area are dark, there's warm light coming from the kitchen.

When he comes back to full wakefulness again, the TV is muttering out an infomercial and he's slumped to the side, almost fully reclined against the plush arm of the couch. John is surprised to find one traitorous arm of his wrapped around Matt's shoulders, holding him close. Matt is basically _snuggled_ up against him, tucked beneath his armpit and curled tight so that his head is on John's chest, one hand clutching lightly at the material of John's shirt.

"Matt," he breathes, shifting up a little, wondering fleetingly if Matt's aunt had seen them like this. The kitchen light is off, so that means she had probably come down and went upstairs again. Matt makes a sleepy sound and wriggles a little against John, as if trying to convince him that lying back down was a superb idea. "Matt, get your lazy ass off me, stop using me as your fucking bed."

"Wha--?" Matt mumbles, stirring and raising his head. His face is close to John's, eyes blurry with sleep. "What, John, _what_?"

John chuckles; Matt is one cranky bastard when he's sleepy. His hand moves to brush wisps of dark hair from Matt's eyes and Matt mutters something unintelligible, blinking up at him.

"Hey, get up," John is saying, or he _wants_ to say it, but Matt's dark eyes are locked to his, the expression in them sharpening from that floating lethargy to something more _aware_.

"Could I--" Matt begins and then tilts his head, lips parting. He licks them, nervously and John's eyes snap to the movement for a brief second.

"Could you what?" John says and wonders why they're talking in whispers; while he's wondering this, he's moving his own face down and the side of his nose bumps against the side of Matt's; his hand now rests on Matt's shoulder, anchored there and he closes his eyes an instant before Matt's mouth touches his.

For a few beats, it's just an experimental brush of lips, their breaths mingling warmly, smelling of pizza and soda. Then Matt presses closer, and parts his lips, tongue flickering out to brush against John's top lip. John lets out a soft groan and deepens the kiss, shifting back so that Matt can settle properly atop him, his hair tickling against the skin of John's cheeks as he turns his head slowly from one side to the other, tongues now stroking more eagerly.

John hears the muffled thump of a door closing upstairs; to him, it sounds like it's coming from miles away. Someone's going to the bathroom, maybe... or coming downstairs. At the same time, Matt presses his hips down and John feels the solid shape of his hard cock sliding against John's own erection, separated only by the layers of Matt's pyjama-pants and John's trousers.

He's _making out_ with Matt, really getting into it. Holy _shit_.

John jerks his head back and puts his hands on Matt's shoulders, pushing him away. Matt looks confused for about four seconds, sitting back on his heels on the other side of the couch and watching John he scrambles for his shoes.

"Look, I have to go, it's late," John mutters and he's off the couch and heading around it towards the front door before Matt moves.

"John, wait."

John pulls open the little closet beside the door and yanks out his jackets and his gloves, dragging them on with swift, jerky movements.

"John, just... just, hang on, let me--"

"I know the way out," John says quickly and turns the latch, pulling open the door. He's out on the porch and gazes out at the quiet streets. It's going to be a real brisk walk to his house.

"John, just _stop_ a second," Matt says desperately and John turns, staring at him. It's cold here by the front door and Matt's arms are wrapped around himself, rubbing at his arms. "Honestly, I don't know what just happened, it just... look, let's just. Forget it."

"We were _kissing_ ," John points out, speaking slowly to avoid a mad stuttering out of the words. "I'm not sure how to forget something like that."

Matt runs a frustrated hand through his hair. His lips are still slightly red and swollen and John thinks _I did that_.

"Yeah, okay, so it got a little crazy for a little bit, but don't just run away like this."

"I'm not running away, kid," John says gruffly even as his hand is on the door-knob. Matt gives him a long stare, wide-eyed and disbelieving. "I just have to go."

"Okay." Matt watches as John goes down those few steps. "Give me a call or something, tomorrow," Matt calls as John pushes open the gate, the cold air gusting against him as he walks away. He turns his head a little, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see the light colour of Matt's shirt almost floating in the darkness.

*

John is completely out of it the next day, and snarls at Patreece more than once, until she says, "Okay, okay, what's _your_ problem?"

"Don't have a problem, Pat," John says and tries to concentrate on closing yet another report. When his pen runs out of ink, he tosses it over his shoulder and searches for another.

"Maybe you should learn to use the computer, Johnny-baby," Patreece sings out from over the divider. John can hear her merry tapping on her keyboard.

"Learn to use the computer," he sing-songs mockingly under his breath as he rummages in the desk drawer. "Yeah, get in touch with your technological side, why not? Be a hackboy!"

"John, I figured out what your problem is," Patreece says, and tsks at him. "You're all lonesome tonight. All alone."

John rolls his eyes.

"That's pathetic," Patreece decides, as if John had agreed. "You're too old to be alone."

"You keep _saying_ that." John glares at her as she snickers. "Look, a couple of people exist that think I'm nowhere near old, Pat."

"Yeah, sure! Those people, we find them in the nursing homes, honey." She casts a look at him, brightly speculative. "Hey, I have this friend, goes to my church. Real nice lady, her husband died a few years ago. Maybe you could have dinner with her, or something."

"I don't think so." John sniffs at the records he's going through. It's boring shit, but he's slugging through them. "Thanks for the offer, though."

"No, no, John, I can't let this go." Patreece actually gets up and comes around to his side, perching on the edge of his desk. John glares at her over the top of his glasses; she adopts a pondering attitude, tapping one manicured fingernail against her cheek. "Now, what's your type, Johnny? You tell your friend Patreece and I'll look high and wide for you, yes, I will."

"I actually don't have a type," John says with a shrug, trying not to think of Matt's wide grin. "Let it go, Pat."

"Nuh-uh, no way." She squints down at him. "You might like them redheaded, like your ex-wife in that photo there." She jerks her head and John's gaze drops to the old family picture he had carefully kept in his locker at the precinct, and placed here on the desk in a sturdy frame when he started doing the P.I. business at Solomon's. In it, he and Holly have strained smiles and the kids look dour, but it was the only family photo he could find.

"Or, maybe your type's got floppy hair and big brown eyes."

"What?" John looks up at her; she's staring towards the main entry of the office, where the letters _SOLOMON'S P.I._ are displayed backwards in the glass section of the door.

Matt is stepping in, pulling a baseball cap off his head. Patreece looks at him with laughter in her dark eyes, teasing John as usual. Her amusement fades when John gets to his feet without a word, and she frowns as she takes in the expression on his face.

"Hi," Matt says softly. "You must be Patreece Simmonds?"

"Depends on who's asking." Patreece looks from Matt to John, her eyes narrowing at the stony expression that John feels creeping over his face, and she looks at Matt again. "And you are?"

"Matt Farrell," John says, gruffly, and clears his throat. "Friend of mine, Pat. From that whole computer attack a few years ago."

"Oh!" Patreece shakes her head, her black curls rocking with the movement of her head. "You were in the middle of all that?" She's lost that mistrustful air she'd been projecting, partly because she's really a sweetheart underneath all her efforts to annoy the shit out of John, and partly because Matt's got that little lost waif thing going on, what with the wide eyes and the brave but wounded expression.

Matt shrugs. "McClane did his thing and saved my life. I was in good hands."

"Our hero, right?" Patreece says and tilts back her head for a fine cackle. John twists his mouth to one side, annoyed as fuck. He looks at Matt's face, and then glances away.

"It's nice to meet you," Matt says. "And I like the hat you made for McClane, it's really awesome."

"You want one?" Patreece is utterly delighted, and is even more so when Matt tells her that he'd love one for his little daughter, in pink.

"I'll pay for it," Matt tells her and Patreece flaps a hand at him.

"Nah, honey, just take a picture when I'm done and your baby-girl's wearing it, and send it to me. Come on over here, look at this!"

She leads Matt around to her side of the partition, where there are dozens of pictures stuck into the thin wall. Cranky old Solomon in a grey cap, John with his left eye squinted shut, Patreece's own family and a crowd of acquaintances from her church. Matt makes appropriate noises of awe, and by the time he's finished looking at the photos, Patreece is preening. John can bet his next paycheck that she'll make one for Matt as well.

"Can I talk to you for a minute? Outside." Matt inclines his head in the direction of the door. Patreece opens her mouth, but John just looks at her until she mimes zipping her lips shut and throwing away an invisible key.

Across from the small building that houses Solomon's and a few other businesses, there's a very small park. It has some swings, one of those flat carousels, a sand-box and a few trees, all of which are reaching skeletal limbs to the grey sky. Matt sits down on a bench near to the narrow gate, and waits for John to take a seat beside him.

"Look," Matt says, gazing a nearby drift of dry leaves in a fixed manner. John realizes that they're sitting in the same manner, leaning forward with their forearms resting on the tops of their thighs, gloved hands clasped in the space between their knees. "Look," he tries again, and sighs.

John says nothing. He turns his head and looks at the side of Matt's face.

"I'm sorry about last night," Matt says, his voice hard. "And then again, I'm not."

"Farrell--"

"Can I finish?" Matt rakes one hand through his hair. "This is hard enough already, okay?"

"Go on, then," John says, and he sounds about fifty times milder than he actually feels.

"This is the same reason I bailed that first time, you know? It's just..." he flaps a hand in John's direction. " _You_."

"What are you saying, kid?" John turns and catches Matt's quick, worried glance before he's gazing away again.

"I'm saying that it might not be a good idea for me and Mel to stay at your place. Because what happened last night is bound to happen again, and I seriously don't want you to kill me or something." Matt purses his lips and blows some strands of hair out of his eyes. "I'd like to see Mel graduate from high school, at least. Okay?" He leans back, slumps against the back of the bench and leans his head to look up at the sky. "Just don't cut me off completely. I won't touch you like that again, promise."

For a few very long beats, they just sit there. John is thinking about a shitload of things at once, and none of them make a lot of sense...not at his age anyway.

He starts, very slowly: "You know, kid, I've never ran away from anything before."

Matt turns his head and looks at him. John laughs, a short, self-derisive sound.

"People'd be throwing shit at me, bullets, fire--"

"Trucks, too," Matt puts in helpfully, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips. It looks hopeful. A warm feeling takes up residence in the middle of John's chest upon seeing this. It's either affection or a heart-attack, he's not too sure.

"Right, trucks. And I never ran away from all that crap, even though they fucking hurt. So my question is, why did I run from something that felt good?"

Matt sits up so fast that it looks like a spastic jerk, and he's staring at John as if he's too good to be true.

"I'm not making any promises," John warns him. "And I still want you to stay by my place."

Matt closes his eyes and laughs, shaking his head wryly. "McClane. You're such a contrary _fuck_ , you know that?"

John watches the way Matt's mouth curls around the words.

He leans a bit closer and says, very quietly, "Yeah, I've heard that one before."

*

Matt doesn't kiss him again until about a week after he and Mel move into John's house. Ida and Joe appear even more dour when Matt and John pack boxes in the back of a rented truck one Sunday, which is a bit surprising to John because he thought they'd be glad to be rid of Matt and his kid. You just can't please some people, John decides and the derisive curl of Ida's top lip before she shuts her door seems to confirm that. Melody completely misunderstands all the packing and spends about ten minutes in frantic tears before they drive away, until Matt reminds her that no, he's not leaving her, they're moving together.

They fill the dark, quiet corners of the house with light and sound. John hadn't realized how lonely he had been, until he comes home and Mel opens the door for him while he's digging around his pockets for the keys.

"Hi!" she bellows up at him. She executes this odd little shimmy-greeting, as she tends to do when she's excited about something, looking like a miniature James Brown.

John stares at her for moment as she pulls some kind of grapevine across the wooden floor, before he smiles and said, "Hey, Mel."

John discovers that she likes to dance a _lot_ , even when she's just watching television or listening to Matt read a book to her. Matt claims that she gets all that nervous energy from him. The funniest thing is that Matt sometimes gets up and dances too, and John watches them with a mixture of perplexity, amusement and a towering sense of contentment.

Matt leaves the house later than he does and most times he and Mel get home earlier. On Fridays, Matt doesn't even go in to the office and Mel doesn't go to pre-school; Matt will programme some shit on that massive computer he has in his room, before taking Mel out for a walk to the nearby park. It's their time, and John is really happy that they have it. He wishes he had had something like that with Luce and Jack, but maybe some things are better late than never.

For the first few days, John gets up and makes an effort at starting some breakfast, maybe pop some slices of bread into the toaster, or even setting up the coffee-machine. He makes some omelettes on a Tuesday, and receives an eloquently grateful text message about an hour after he's at work. John learns how to use the camera on his phone, and sends an image of the hats that Patreece is knitting: one for Matt, which suspiciously resembles John's, and a beautiful pink one for Melody.

One morning Matt manages to stumble down the stairs before John heads out for work. His hair is slightly damp, as is the collar of the worn grey shirt he's wearing. He yawns mightily, and blinks at the coffee-cup John hands to him.

"Wow, thanks," he mutters and takes a long, loud sip. "You get up real early in the mornings, McClane. What, you need to wake up the sun, or something."

"Habit," John says. "Mel up as yet?"

"Nah, I'm gonna go rustle her up in about ten minutes. I was thinking spaghetti tonight, though. I can't beat those baked potatoes you made last night. Dude, those were awesome."

"Sure." John smiles at the fervent note in Matt's voice. The kid had gone through those potatoes with as much relish as Mel, and that was saying a lot. "Spaghetti's good."

"Want to meet for lunch today?" Matt asks him, taking a step closer.

John tilts his head a little, and doesn't move away. He and Matt have been fairly circumspect around each other, but he hasn't missed how Matt touches John's wrist when he wants John's attention on something, or how Matt sits close to him on the couch when they're watching the television, Mel either colouring in a book on the carpet at their feet, or upstairs playing with her dolls and beloved music-box.

"Yeah," John murmurs, "that sounds good."

"Good," Matt agrees in a husky tone. Another step forward has him right up in John's space, and John takes a deep breath, smelling the soap Matt had used to wash his face and the mint of the toothpaste he used.

"Good," John repeats, leaning down. Matt doesn't waste any time; he tilts up his chin and tentatively, lets his mouth brush against John's.

"Not running away?" Matt whispers and John huffs out laughter. Matt licks his lips and John can feel the movement of his tongue against his own mouth. He's leaning against the counter near the sink, Matt resting almost fully against him.

When Matt finally kisses him, John feels as if he's being chased by a gun-toting maniac, his heart is beating that fast. It's so _different_ , because Matt doesn't have that softness to press against John's chest and there's stubble underneath John's palms when he cups Matt's face in his hands, deepening the kiss.

John lets his hands slide down Matt's neck, across his shoulders and down his arms, exploring the solid planes of Matt's body and how it still manages to fit well against his. Matt's making these quiet, aroused noises and John has a sudden, clear mental image of how he might be in bed, all lean muscle and flushed skin. With some difficulty, he pulls away, his hands splayed over Matt's hips.

"Matt. Shit, I'm not... I'm not even gay," he mutters and tries to slide away, but it feels impossible. Matt moans in a mixture of want and annoyance, grabbing onto John's shoulders and pulling him closer once more.

"McClane, your _tongue_ was all up in my mouth ten seconds ago. I happen to be of the male persuasion. I'd say that if you weren't fully gay, then you're at _least_ halfway there."

John laughs. He laughs so hard, he has to rest his forehead against Matt's, and stays there for a few breathless moments, just trying to get himself under control. Matt is grinning at him, and he steals a kiss or two as John's chuckles peter out.

"My family is going to see you here for Thanksgiving...you and Mel," John says, and puts his arms around Matt, experimentally. It feels good; real good. "How're we going to get through _that_ gauntlet?"

Matt's eyes light up. "I really don't know. But I like how you say _we_."

Melody pipes up behind them: "Hey John, toast," except she still doesn't have the handle on all the words and _John_ comes out as _Dohn_. They untangle themselves to look at her as she knuckles one eye and yawns hugely. Matt goes over to swing her up in his arms, and John watches them laugh together.

"Turkey pizza for Thanksgiving!" Matt tells her. "How about that? Sounds good?"

"Yeah," John says to himself when Melody shrieks in delight. "Sounds just fine."

 _fin_


End file.
